


Tooth and Claw

by cleromancy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Childhood Sweethearts, Community: got_exchange, F/F, Ironborn - Freeform, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 02:29:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3711436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleromancy/pseuds/cleromancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before the Greyjoy Rebellion, Alysane Mormont is sent to foster with the Harlaws. AU (alt-history/what-if).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tooth and Claw

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mautadite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mautadite/gifts).



> Warnings: Possible slight ADWD spoilers. Violence (blood, fighting, dismembering, but it's not really THAT graphic--warning is just to be safe), canon-typical misogyny, heteronormativity, body shaming (re: facial hair growth, weight), casual cissexism, bestiality jokes (Mormont women fucking bears, etc). Offscreen deaths, hinted offscreen family/domestic/child abuse.
> 
> NOTES: Thanks to everyone who read this over for me. I have more in this verse planned so expect more eventually. Also, guess what Laura, every time you reblogged that writing post I WENT TO WRITE THIS FIC.
> 
> Suspension of disbelief may be necessary for the fosterage. There’s a brief discussion of skinchanging, and: I know skinchanging isn’t necessarily limited to Northerners, but I don’t think Rodrik necessarily knows. There’s a superstition on the Iron Islands that the Farwynds are skinchangers, but imo Rodrik doesn’t believe it.
> 
> I took some liberties with worldbuilding, building off brief mentions/offhand lines when necessary. If you notice anything directly contradicted by canon (especially if you have access to TWOIAF), please let me know.
> 
> Feedback of all types is encouraged.

**288 AC**  
  
“Fuck!” Aly throws down the bow, fuming.  
  
Theon’s giggling, swinging his legs from his perch on the weapons bench. Dagmer Cleftjaw laughs as well, a forceful bark that makes his four lips flap out.  
  
“I told you, girl,” he says. “If women were meant to be bowmen, they wouldn’t grow teats.”  
Asha purses her lips. Dagmer  _had_  told Aly she couldn’t hold it properly with her chest in the way. He said that no matter how she held the bow, its string would bite her when she released it.  
  
Aly crosses her arms over her chest. “Asha could use it,” she snaps.  
  
It’s true. Not all women are stocky like Aly and her Northerners. Most Ironborn women are wiry and weedy, Asha even moreso than most. She’s often mistaken for a boy, since her breasts haven’t grown in at all; part of Asha hopes they never do. The rest of her is afraid they won’t.  
  
Regardless, Asha shrugs. “Bows are for cravens,” she decides on the spot, peeking at Aly out the corner of her eye. “A real warrior should be in the fray.”  
  
“How do you know this?” Dagmer asks. “From all the battles you’ve fought? A girl of twelve?”  
  
Aly snorts. “Even your pirates use bows,” she says derisively. “They’re the first line of defense.”  
  
Scowling, Asha sticks out her tongue at Aly's back, making Theon giggle again.  
  
Aly’s weapons training started up the first day she came to Harlaw. It was a condition of her fosterage; as a woman of Bear Island, she's expected to be a warrior. Missing years of practice would hinder her severely. Still, Aly isn't allowed to train with Asha’s older brothers and cousins. Instead, she's sharing little Theon’s lessons under the eyes of old Dagmer Cleftjaw.  
  
Dagmer hadn’t been happy about it. He asked Asha’s mother why he should train a Mormont woman. He'd fought Mormont women, he said, and would fight them again, like as not. Asha’s mother looked at him chillingly and said “Because your lady told you to.” He didn’t raise any more fuss after that.  
  
But even now that Dagmer’s training Aly, he still won’t let Asha join in. When he first refused her, he asked what kind of suitors a four-fingered woman would have. "What use," he'd asked, "would a daughter with no suitors would be to her father?" Stung, Asha asked why her suitors would care how many fingers she had. You don't need fingers to bear sons. But that made no matter to Dagmer. His refusal stood.  
  
Dagmer picks up a small throwing axe from the weapons bench and hands it to Aly. “Try this, lass.”  
  
That seems to return some of Aly’s cheer.  
  
“I’ve tried it,” she says, tossing and catching it deftly. “On Bear Island we hold contests to see who can sink an axe the deepest into a log from forty paces.”  
  
Over by the well, a loud snort turns their heads. It’s Maron, wiping his sweaty red face on his tunic, flanked by Uncle Rodrik’s sons Harron and Ulrich. Asha glances around for Theon, but Theon’s gone. He must have spotted Maron before she did and slunk off.  
  
“Very brave of you,” says Maron. “You greenlanders know how to have a good time, don’t you?”  
  
Aly growls. “Say what you mean, reaver.”  
  
Maron sneers. “A real contest would have you wetting those breeches.”  
  
“A contest like what?” Aly demands, and Asha’s stomach sinks.  
  
“We call it the finger dance,” says Maron. “But with you, it’d be more of a stumble.” He looks her up and down. “Or mayhaps a waddle.”  
  
Dagmer cuts in. “You don’t mean to challenge her, do you, lad?”  
  
“Why not?” asks Aly angrily. Her round face is flushed, splotchy.  
  
“We don’t call it the finger dance because you use them for catching,” says Dagmer. “It’s because, oft as not, it ends with a dancer losing fingers.”  
  
Aly doesn’t even flinch. “A Mormont never backs down from a challenge. Teach me.”  
  
Dagmer persists. “Young Lady Asha’s uncle lost his hand and then his life playing the finger dance.”  
  
“Only because they tried sewing it back on after,” Asha pipes up. It’s a gruesome tale, one of her favorites. Uncle Rodrik tells it as often as she asks. He never liked Urrigon.  
  
“Teach. Me,” says Aly.  
  
Dagmer opens his mouth as if to argue. No words come out, only a sigh. He steps back out of the way, pinching the bridge of his nose.  
  
The steps themselves are easy to learn. They’re set to a hypnotic pulse,  _one-two-three one-two-three one-two-three_. In the towers and halls and keeps, they play the rhythm on the drums. Here in the yard they use their bodies instead, clapping hands and slapping their legs in time.  
  
Maron shows Aly the moves of the dance slowly. First a step, then another while twirling the axe. Then the dancers turn around, lifting their legs to pass the axe beneath and catching with their other hand.  
  
“And then throw, and catch in the next beat,” says Maron. “Or leap over it without missing the next step.”  
  
He shows her again, faster now. Step, twirl, spin, catch, throw, catch, and then again.  
  
Aly nods grimly. She mimes it to herself, lips moving in a silent count. Aly mimes it to herself a few times, slow and careful at first and then faster. When she has it down, she stops, twirling the axe again, nodding decisively.  
  
“I’m ready,” says Aly.  
  
Dagmer's shaking his head. "What will your mother say?” he asks Maron. “What of the She-Bear, when we send her cub back with half a hand?"  
  
"The half you send me back with will be  _his,_ " Aly snarls. In that moment, Asha believes her.  
  
Maron doesn't. "Try it and see," he says, mocking.  
  
The dance begins.  
  
Asha, Harron, and Ulrich set the rhythm for them once again. Dagmer doesn’t join in, crossing his arms and leaning back against the workbench.  
  
Practiced players make the finger dance beautiful, even those who dance with two axes instead of one. Their movements are fluid and languid, but Aly’s and Maron’s are jerky and tense. Jerky and tense they might be, but they settle quickly into the dance. Soon Aly's round face is red, sweat sticking her flyaway hair to her temples. Whenever Maron and Aly’s eyes meet, Maron’s smirk widens and Aly’s eyes harden. She's snarling, bearing crooked teeth, furious and fearsome.  
  
Asha can’t tear her eyes away from Aly. She’s not graceful nor beautiful. There's dark hair on her lip and between her brows, and every part of her is thick and broad. Even with hips made for bearing children, she'd be no prize as a saltwife. But there's a fire in her eyes and she doesn't miss a step. Asha imagines her dancing with any man who would challenge her, wind snatching at her long braid.  _Not a prize,_  Asha thinks, dazed,  _the prize-winner_.  
  
As the dance continues, the rhythm speeds. Finger dances rarely last long; the tempo increases too much. Even experienced dancers miss steps when they have to move so quickly. Asha’s heartbeat seems to keep time with the drums, ever faster.  
  
Maron stumbles on his turn to spin, a gasp replacing his smirk. He recovers, barely staying in time to pass the axe beneath his leg. Off-balance, he throws the axe too early, to their cousins' jeers and Dagmer's disapproval.  
  
Aly catches it anyhow, not missing a beat.  
  
She steps, steps, turns on her heel. Passes the axe beneath her leg. Catches it. Throws it, and it hurtles towards Maron's waiting hand.  
  
And past it, slicing decisively into the turf. At first, Asha thinks Maron missed the catch and lost the game. She makes ready to jeer with her cousins, but then Maron is swaying, and Asha sees red streaks on the axe. Maron stumbles to his knees, clutching his hand. Blood sprays the ground through his fingers.  
Aly’s chest is heaving. Her victory's fanned the fire in her eyes, by the splattering of blood on her face. Asha is as breathless as if she’d been a dancer herself. She’s never thrown an axe in her life, let alone caught one; still every inch of her wants to dance with Aly. She’d gladly sacrifice a finger or two for the chance.  
  
Her cousins are laughing, Harron pointing at the fingers that went flying and landed in the grass.  
Dagmer laughs as well, although his is more incredulous than gleeful. He crosses to Maron, slumped and cradling his hand, and cuffs him around the head.  
  
“Challenging a greenlander maid and then losing to her?” Dagmer says. “How proud your mother will be.”  
  
“She  _cheated,_ ” howls Maron.  
  
Harron boos. “Whining won’t make your fingers grow back.”  
  
Aly spits on the ground. She wipes her face with the back of her hand.  
  
Dagmer gives her an appraising look, then shakes his head again. He turns back to Maron.  
  
“Come, daft boy,” he says. “Let’s get that hand seen to before you faint.”  
  
He whistles to Ulrich. Ulrich who comes over, still snickering, and takes off his sweaty tunic. He wraps around Maron’s maimed hand, taking care to use the cleanest part first, then claps Maron on the back with a force that makes him lurch forward.  
  
Dagmer herds them towards the keep to have a Maester clean and seal the stumps. Harron tries to catch Aly's eye, but she doesn't look over. He shrugs and follows his younger brother to the Keep, jogging to keep up.  
  
Asha’s smile threatens to split her face in two. She walks up to congratulate Aly, but Aly is frowning at the bloody fingers in the grass. Asha wonders what manner of scavenger will get to them first; a raven picking at a She-Bear’s leavings would be oddly fitting. Unless Aly meant that she'd take them home to her mother.  
  
“Have you ever chopped off a boy’s fingers before?” Asha asks.  
  
For a moment, Aly doesn’t move. Then, without turning to face Asha, she shakes her head.  
  
“Toes?” Asha prompts.  
  
Aly huffs. “I suppose you’ve chopped off thousands of both.”  
  
“No,” Asha says. “Well, not yet.”  
  
It seems Aly has nothing to say to that. Instead, she rubs her face, then rolls her shoulders, then clenches and unclenches her hands. All the while, she doesn't look away from the fingers. She’s pale now, the angry flush from earlier gone. Her face looks almost sickly.  
  
“…want to go climb cliffs?” Asha offers after a while, stuffing her hands in her pockets. “I know a cliff no one else knows. I can show you if you like.”  
  
This time Aly does turn to face Asha, wisps of brown hair still clinging to her forehead from sweat. She gives Asha a long look.  
  
“Sure,” she says finally, and Asha can’t stop herself from grinning.  
  
*  
  
Mid-climb up the cliff, Aly says, “A raven from Lord Greyjoy arrived this morning."  
  
“Oh?” Asha asks. “To Maron or Rodrik?”  
  
“To your lady mother.”  
  
Asha blinks. “Strange. He never consults with her.” Except when she demands his attention by threatening him with Uncle Rodrik.  
  
Startled, Aly looks over her shoulder down at Asha. “What? Why?”  
  
“Why should he?”  
  
“She’s his  _lady wife._ ”  
  
That’s confusing for a long moment. Then Asha realizes Aly meant that was why her father should listen. Do all men on Bear Island listen to their wives?  
  
"It doesn't work like that here," says Asha. "Father is  _the Greyjoy._  He doesn't have to listen to a woman."  
  
“My mother would  _never_  marry a man who wouldn’t listen to her,” says Aly decisively.  
  
She  _chose_  who to marry? Asha wishes again that she'd been born on Bear Island. Mayhaps she could stow away on the next trade ship there and leave… but then she'd never have a ship of her own. Women don't have ships on Bear Island. And the ships the men have are for fishing.  
  
It might be worth it, though.  
  
Aly speaks again. “How come your mother doesn’t live with him?”  
  
“Well, she’s given him all the heirs he needs,” explains Asha. “And he has his saltwives. He doesn’t need her to warm his bed.”  
  
Aly squints, then shrugs, turning her focus back to the cliff. “He must not like her very much.”  
_He used to_ , Asha thinks. She remembers being very small, on Grandfather Greyjoy's knee. A servant—who used to be a thrall, before Grandfather freed the thralls—was playing the fiddle. Father was leading Mother in a rare dance that wasn’t done with axes. Mother was laughing, and Father picked her up and spun her around. He had given her a rare smile and tucked her hair back behind her ear.  
  
He wouldn't do that now, though. Not since Grandfather Greyjoy died. Mother says she lives on Harlaw because Pyke gives her a chill. When she used to live in the Keep with Father, though, she was the picture of health. Her lungs were strong, and the screaming matches she had with Father proved it.  
  
Sometimes Asha and Theon spied when they could hear yelling. One of the fights before Mother left had been especially vicious. Asha doesn't remember what they said, but she remembers that afterwards, Mother stalked out. Father pushed over his table, then stormed to the mantle to beat his fist against it.  _Sour fucking cow,_  he spat into the fireplace, over and over, until Asha dragged Theon away.  
  
Here and now, Asha says simply, “Fathers are like that.”  
  
“I wouldn’t know,” says Aly, hoisting herself up onto the grassy clifftop easily. “My father was a bear.”  
  
Rolling her eyes, Asha tests her weight on a foothold. “Was not.”  
  
“ _Was_ ,” says Aly. “Ask anyone. We’re skinchangers, we Mormont women.”  
  
That plants a seed of doubt. Uncle Rodrick had told Asha tales of skinchangers, like the Warg King who ruled Sea Dragon Point before the Starks won it. He said it dates back to the First Men and the children of the forest and the greenseers—old magic. Northern magic. Aly is as Northern as they come.  
  
Asha doesn’t let her hesitation show, but pauses climbing to look up at Aly. “Turn into a bear, then.”  
  
“Can’t until I go find a mate,” says Aly, raising a heavy eyebrow. “And there’s none suitable here—there’s no bears on Harlaw.”  
  
Trying to minimize the awkwardness of her gangly limbs, Asha clambers up onto the cliff. Her breeches, barely long enough to tuck into her boots, have come out in the climb. She plonks down to fix them.  
  
Aly’s grinning. “Could find myself a squid, mayhaps.”  
  
“Kraken,” corrects Asha.  
  
“I’m about as like to find a kraken as I am a bear.”  
  
Asha grins. “When I have my ships, I’ll take you all ‘round Ironman’s Bay, and the rest of the Sunset Sea for good measure. I’ll catch you a kraken for sure.”  
  
“That’s all very well,” says Aly. “But it doesn’t do me much good now, does it?”  
  
Asha blows a long raspberry, making Aly laugh. She snorts when she laughs, and that makes Asha laugh as well.  
  
It’s good having Aly here. Asha doesn’t have many female companions. There’s her mother and Aunt Gwynesse, but they’re  _old._  There are a few distant aunts and cousins, all either too old or too young. All the girls from the villages have been too timid and dull, or laughed about Asha’s pimples. Before Aly came, Asha mainly contented herself with Theon and occasional squires who weren’t too lofty to talk to girls.  
  
But Aly’s more than just a girl the same age who isn’t cruel or cowardly. She’s interesting, and funny, and the bravest girl Asha’s ever met. In name, Aly’s fostering with Asha’s cousins, but she shares Asha’s room, and Asha’s been on Harlaw most of the time Aly’s been here. When Asha  _does_  make trips to Pyke, Aly often comes along.  
  
Her breeches tucked back into her boots, Asha rocks to her feet.  
  
“Race you to the trees,” Asha calls, launching into a run before Aly has time to react.  
  
*  
  
That evening, Asha makes her way to Mother’s room, still unable to completely vanish her smile. She hopes to be the one to tell Mother about Aly and Maron; Maron wouldn’t have come himself, and neither would Aly.  
  
When she’s a handful of paces to the door, muffled voices catch her attention. Her mother’s, she judges, and Uncle Rodrik. A scant few words are clear enough:  _…ships… rebellion… waste… Balon…_  
  
Intrigued, Asha creeps closer. Uncle Rodrik’s saying something that she can’t quite make out, so she presses her ear against the cool wood of the door.  
  
“…go to war.”  
  
“He’s going to,” says Mother. “Within the year, I should think. Nothing I can say will convince him otherwise. Stubborn fool.”  
  
“He has to know it won’t get anywhere.”  
  
“He’s certain it will. He thinks the realm is still divided from the rebellion.”  
Uncle Rodrik scoffs. “It’s obvious the king’s been itching for a fight. He’d be ready. And they match our ships…”  
  
“He won’t listen to reason. He wants to believe in the fight so badly. He wants to be the king that brought back the Old Way. I said you wouldn’t back him, but…”  
  
“The nobles on Harlaw love him far better than they love me,” says Uncle Rodrik. “It wouldn’t take much to sway them.”  
  
“Aye,” says Mother. “And he has plenty to sway them with.”  
  
“There’s no Ironborn alive that doesn’t want independence.”  
  
“Willing to believe in a vain, hopeless war to achieve it, aye.”  
  
Then a long stretch of quiet, until Uncle Rodrik speaks again.  
  
“Your lord husband is a pain in the ass.”  
  
“Try being his lady wife.”  
  
A sigh. Asha can’t tell if it’s her mother’s or uncle’s.  
  
“Well,” says her uncle wearily. “Perhaps we should see how we can minimize the fallout, then.”  
  
Too late, Asha realizes that their voices are getting closer, and she scrambles back, looks around for a place to hide, but then the doors are open and she’s faced with her uncle and mother.  
  
“Ah, if it isn’t my favorite niece,” says Uncle Rodrik, smiling wryly. “What a surprise. I don’t believe we invited you. Lanny—?”  
  
Clicking her tongue, Mother cuffs Asha on the back of her head. “If you’re going to sneak, don’t get caught,” she says.  
  
“Wasn’t trying to get caught,” mumbles Asha sullenly, rubbing her head.  
  
“Next time, don’t  _not try_  to get caught,” Mother says. “ _Try_  not to get caught instead.”  
  
Uncle Rodrik laughs. He musses Asha’s hair as he passes.  
  
Asha watches him go, then turns to face her mother.  
  
Mother looks back, frowning down her beaky nose. She pinches a lock of hair that had fallen into Asha’s eyes, displaced by the tousling.  
  
“You’re getting shaggy,” she says. “Come.”  
  
Dutifully, Asha follows Mother back into her chambers. She pulls Asha towards her, seating her on the stone floor between her legs. There are servants who could do this, but Asha’s mother rarely sends for them. She likes to say that she didn’t nurse Asha with her own teats just for another woman to raise her.  
  
It takes Mother a moment to rummage in the drawer for her shears and comb. Then she holds Asha’s head steady and begins to snip.  
  
Mother’s hands are soft; her grip isn’t. She’s telling Asha with her hands to comb her hair more often. Asha bites down on her tongue to keep from grunting in pain.  
  
Before long, Mother speaks. “Theon tells me you’ve saved him from a spider.”  
  
_That snitch._  “He was crying,” says Asha baldly. “Like a  _baby._ ”  
  
He had been, or as good as. After the finger dance, Asha had gone off to check Theon’s regular hiding places to warn him about Maron’s sour mood. She found him tucked as far into the back corner of a closet as he could get, staring saucer-eyed at a spider blocking his exit.  
  
Asha told him it was poisonous, that it would kill him dead, punctuating it with a snap of her teeth. It very well could have been, for all she knew; it made no matter, since Theon didn’t know either. When Theon whimpered, Asha crushed the spider beneath her boot, grinding her heel for good measure. “Saved your life,” she told him, then tugged him out into the hall.  
  
If it were Rodrik, he’d have taken the spider in his hands and waved it in Theon’s face. Maron would’ve shoved Theon’s face near the spider. Asha saved him, and yet he loved her brothers all the more. Mayhaps because Asha used to make Theon play dolls with her, and their brothers never did. Could be that’s worse than pain to a boy, but Theon liked dolls well enough when he was four.  
  
Mother’s amusement is thinly masked. “How noble of you, then,” she says. “Especially from such a frightening, deadly beast.”  
  
Asha scowls.  
  
Chuckling, her mother pulls the comb through a snarl so roughly that Asha hisses. Mother attacks the knot like she’s wielding an axe instead of a comb, single-minded and straightforward. Asha clenches her fists, nails biting into her palms.  
  
Then she remembers why she came.  
  
“Mother,” she says. “Maron lost the finger dance today.”  
  
Mother’s hands still. “How badly?”  
  
“Only two fingers.”  
  
“‘Only,’” repeats her mother. “Not any thumbs, I hope.”  
  
Asha holds up the pinkie and ring fingers on her left hand.  
  
“Small favors,” Mother says. “Has he had them seen to?”  
  
“The Cleftjaw took him.”  
  
Sighing, Mother resumes her attack on the knots in Asha’s hair. “Mothers across the Islands will rejoice when their sons give up that blasted game.”  
  
“That’s the best part!” Asha crows. “He challenged  _Aly_ , and she  _beat_  him!”  
  
“Aly—Alysane? The Mormont girl?” Mother clucks her tongue. “Drown that boy for a fool.”  
  
“She was amazing!” says Asha. “Why couldn’t I have been fostered on Bear Island?”  
  
“You’re the only daughter of one of the Great Houses, and the rest look down on the Greyjoys enough as it is. You might have fostered with the Starks…”  
  
Asha wrinkles her nose. “No.”  
  
“The only others you’d like half so well are the Martells,” says Mother. “And they wouldn’t have taken you. The Greyjoys were on the wrong side of the Rebellion.”  
  
“The Rebellion? That was so long ago.”  
  
“Our side killed their prince and princess,” Mother reminds her. “Five years isn’t enough to forgive that. And the Martells aren’t the forgiving sort.”  
  
There’s a ruefulness to her voice that catches Asha’s attention.  _Does she want the Martells’ forgiveness?_  Asha wonders. That doesn’t sound right; Mother rarely cares if she’s liked.  
  
“Your grandfather was a wise man,” says Mother suddenly.  
  
Disoriented by the subject change, Asha blinks. “Grandfather Harlaw?”  
  
“Grandfather Greyjoy,” says Mother. “My good-father.”  
  
_Father says he was weak,_  Asha doesn’t say. If she said so, her mother would ask if  _Asha_  thought Grandfather Greyjoy was weak, and Asha doesn’t know why Father thinks he was. Asha doesn’t like to answer her mother’s questions incorrectly. Her mother’s disapproval does not always come in smacks; sometimes it’s quiet disappointment, and that is far worse.  
  
Instead, she asks, “Why was he wise?”  
  
Mother doesn’t answer right away, tugging a comb through a stubborn snarl in Asha’s hair. Asha fights not to wince. Then the comb pulls through the knot.  
  
“The world is always changing, little kraken,” her mother says. “Tides rise and fall, as do kings, as do the Great Houses.”  
  
“Do you mean House Greyjoy?” Asha asked.  
  
Mother brushes the trimmed hair off of Asha’s shoulders. “I mean all things,” she says.  
  
House Greyjoy rising and falling doesn’t seem right to Asha. Father said that the Greyjoys were strong, and the greenlanders were weak. Then he said that the Ironborn had become weak, which was confusing because he didn’t say why or how. The Ironborn always seemed the same to Asha.  
  
“Fools ignore the changes,” Mother is saying. “Wise men change with them.”  
  
Asha chews her short thumbnail. “What if it was better before it changed?”  
  
“Not many changes can be undone,” says Mother. “The old will never be young again. The dead will never return to life. The rocks on the shore won’t regain their sharp edges.”  
  
“But those who were weakened can become strong again,” Asha says. She thinks she understands what her mother is speaking of now.  
  
“Aye,” says her mother. “But not by doing what weakened them.”  
  
Her long, cool fingers brush against the back of Asha’s neck as she takes a lock between two fingers. The shears close around it, and it joins the rest on the floor.  
  
“The Mormont girl will be sent home sooner than expected,” says her mother.  
  
Asha startles. “Because she cut off Maron’s fingers?”  
  
“No,” says her mother. “He challenged her. He has no one to blame but himself.”  
  
“He says she cheated, but he was just mad she beat him.”  
  
“He didn’t consider he might lose, I suspect.” There is fondness in her mother’s voice.  
  
Sucking the inside of her cheek, Asha thinks for a moment. Then she asks, “When will Aly have to leave?”  
  
“A day, maybe two,” says her mother. “As soon as a longship can make sail.”  
  
Aghast, Asha asks, “So soon?”  
  
For a while, Mother is quiet. Then she says, “There’s a storm coming,” in a tone making it clear that she will not say more on the topic.  
  
_Not the sort of storm that comes with thunder_ , Asha thinks.  
  
Asha sits quietly, listening to the soft  _snnnckt_  of the shears. She thinks about climbing and swimming with Aly earlier. She wants to ask if it’s true that Aly’s father’s a bear. She decides against it, lest her mother cuff her again for foolishness.  _He probably wasn’t a bear. There’s no skinchangers left south of the Wall. None North of it either, like as not._  
  
“Asha, do you know why the Mormont girl came to foster with your cousins?”  
  
Blinking, Asha tries to think. She wonders if this is a test, if she’s supposed to know why Aly came. But she hadn’t asked Aly, and she didn’t pick anything up while sneaking around either.  
  
She hedges her bets with a guess. “Because we used to reave on Bear Island? So now we can have peace?”  
  
“Mm,” says her mother. “We’ve been at odds for hundreds of years. Lady Mormont and I… we came to an understanding of sorts.”  
  
“The She-Bear?” Asha asks excitedly. She twists around, not caring that it pulls her hair.  
  
“Keep still. I’m nearly done.”  
  
“You met the She-Bear?” Asha asks. “When? Why? What happened?”  
  
Mother sighs. “Yes I met her, before you were born, and it’s a long tale I don’t care to repeat.”  
  
“What? Why?”  
  
“Don’t whine,” Mother says sharply. “I said no.”  
  
Mother nudges Asha’s shoulder, prompting her to move back so Mother can finish her hair.  
  
Reluctantly, Asha turns back around to allow it. She’ll have to ask Uncle Rodrik later.  
  
The comb returns to Asha’s hair, the fingers to the back of her neck.  
  
“We had such high hopes,” sighs Mother. “You’re such friends, and we might have married her to Ulrich, or even Harron, if he’d have her…”  
  
They would have sold Aly off to Ulrich? Asha makes a face.  
  
Mother has trailed off. Either she’s run out of things to say, or she’s talking to herself inside her head instead of outside it. She continues to trim Asha’s hair, neatening the ends and combing out the tickling strays. Asha falls into something of a hypnotic trance, lulled by the sounds of shearing and the touch of her mother’s hands.  
  
Then Mother stops, setting down the shears. She brushes loose hair off of Asha’s shoulders.  
  
“There you go, beautiful girl,” she says. “Good as new.”  
  
Asha hops up into the in the puddle of hair clippings. She shakes her head like a dog, pleased by its lightness.  
  
“Off with you now,” says Mother.  
  
Before she lets Asha go, though, she holds her shoulders a moment longer to kiss the crown of her head.  
  
*  
  
It’s late when Asha’s feet take her to the room she and Aly share. She can tell Aly’s already asleep, because she can hear the snoring even from down the hall. Sneaking is much easier when foot-sounds and hinge-sounds are covered by something louder. When Asha closes the door behind her, the room is dark and the snoring is uninterrupted.  
  
Asha pounces.  
  
“Mlph,” says Aly, jolting. “Wha—what is—?”  
  
"They're sending you home," Asha says, with some glee to be the one to break the news. Even if she doesn’t like the news itself.  
  
"What?" Aly says, suddenly sounding far more awake. "Now? Why?"  
  
Asha lowers her voice ominously. "Mother says there's to be a storm."  
  
"A hurricane?"  
  
Asha shrugs. "It won't be until the morrow, or mayhaps the morrow after.” She grins. “The morrow's morrow."  
  
"The storm?"  
  
"Your sendoff, you clod."  
  
"You're the clod," says Aly crossly. "If they’re not sending me now, I'm going back to sleep."  
  
"Don't," says Asha. "You'll have to leave soon and I won't see you again until I have ships of my own."  
  
Aly pulls the blankets up over her head. Asha pokes the Aly-lump under the covers, to no response.  
  
"I know you're not asleep," Asha says. "You snore like a true bear when you’re asleep."  
  
She lies down next to Aly uninvited, wriggling under the covers with her. Aly grunts and kicks at her. Asha ignores it, making herself comfortable.  
  
After a while, Aly speaks.  
  
“Asha,” she says tentatively, muffled by the blankets over her head.  
  
Asha looks over.  
  
“Are they sending me home because of Maron?”  
  
“No,” says Asha scathingly. “Of course not, don’t be a dunce.”  
  
“Why is no one angry I took half his hand? Why aren’t you?”  
  
“He has other fingers,” says Asha.  
  
“I don’t understand you Ironmen,” says Aly, finally taking the blankets off of her face. “Your cousins like me all the better now.”  
  
Asha frowns. “Oh?”  
  
“They both said they’d ask for my hand.”  
  
That doesn’t sit well with Asha. Dagmer had asked what kind of suitors a four-fingered woman would have. Well, shows that old fool; it seems a woman with two extra will have plenty. Asha feels as though she should be pleased, but she isn’t. It seems all women’s skills, even at the battle arts, serve only to weigh their worth as wives. Asha was wrong; even Aly turns out to be only a prize, after all.  
  
“Tell them they can try and take it when they dance with you,” Asha says.  
  
“Why?” asks Aly. “Are they awful?”  
  
“Not so far as boys go,” Asha admits begrudgingly. “But why would you  _want_  to marry either of them?”  
  
Aly turns on her side, facing Asha. The moonlight traces the curve of her cheek. “Brokering peace,” she says. “Why my lady mother sent me here at all. I didn’t expect I’d have offers, but it seems Ironmen cream their smallclothes over any woman that can hold an axe.”  
  
_Not just hold it,_  Asha thinks, but doesn’t say, since Aly thinks so little of the awe she inspires.  
  
“You have three sisters,” she says instead. “Surely you could avoid marriage altogether.”  
  
“That’ll be Dacey,” says Aly. “She wants to rule Bear Island like our mother before her. No lord husband, just a bear for a lover.”  
  
That sounds far more appealing to Asha. “You must wish you and her were switched.”  
  
Aly blinks. “No,” she says. She sounds surprised. “Never.”  
  
“Never?” Asha repeats incredulously.  
  
“What’s the point of wishing for a thing like that?”  
  
“Do you only wish for things when it has a point?”  
  
“I don’t want to be Dacey,” says Aly firmly. “If I were Dacey, I wouldn’t  _have_  Dacey, and being Aly is good enough.”  
  
_Is being Asha good enough?_  Asha wonders. That line of thought makes her chest feel funny, though, so she dismisses it.  
  
She pillows her head on her arms. “Do you miss her?”  
  
“I miss them all,” says Aly.  
  
When Theon was born, Asha was furious she got another brother instead of a sister. She hadn’t forgiven Theon until his second nameday.  
  
“Tell me about them,” says Asha.  
  
Aly thinks a moment before speaking. “Jory’s the youngest. Three. Puts everything she can get her hands on in her mouth when you don’t watch her. Caught her trying to eat an earthworm once.  
  
“Lyra’s not much younger than Theon. She’s your opposite. Hates the sight of blood. Might have marry her into another House, or make an archer of her,” Aly says. “Pray she doesn’t have my build.”  
  
“And Dacey?” Asha prompts, impatient. She wanted to hear of Dacey most.  
  
Shrugging, Aly rolls onto her back. “Tall. Beautiful. Good with a battleaxe, better with a morningstar.”  
  
She stops there, and Asha waits, frowning. Asha’s about to prod her to continue when Aly speaks.  
  
“We used to… there’s a carving on our gate. A woman with a battleaxe and a suckling babe. When we played when we were small, Dacey always wanted to be her.  
  
“We ran around with sticks for swords, Dacey with her shirt off and a doll in the other hand.” Aly grins. “She’s like you, though. Didn’t sprout teats until fifteen. She was furious I got them before her. She wouldn’t envy me the backaches, though.”  
  
Huffing, Asha rolls her eyes. Why does everyone have to mention her lack of breasts?  
  
Aly’s smile fades. “It’ll be good to see them again.”  
  
“You’ll miss me when you’re gone, though,” says Asha, more confidently than she feels.  
  
“I might,” says Aly.  
  
Asha considers biting her. But then Aly’s laughing, and Asha shoves her instead, and thinks about saying  _well, I will miss you._  
  
“Is there a storm coming, truly?” Aly asks after a while.  
  
“That’s what Mother said,” hedges Asha.  
  
“But there’s more, isn’t there,” says Aly, her brown eyes searching Asha’s face. “That’s not why you’re sending me back.”  
  
“Mother didn’t say,” says Asha. Mother wouldn’t want her revealing anything, she’s sure.  
  
Aly hums and accepts that, not probing deeper. “My lady mother won’t be pleased if she can’t match me up with a Harlaw.”  
  
“I can’t believe they  _both_  wanted to try for your hand,” says Asha in disgust.  
  
“It’s no great shock. I’m a maiden flowered,” Aly says, in a tone that suggests she thinks she’s being sensible. “If I were a beauty like Dacey, I’d have a dozen suitors already.”  
  
“Suitors,” says Asha finally, wrinkling her nose. “And why do they call it flowering, anyhow?”  
  
Aly’s smile is as crooked as her teeth. “’Cause it smells of flowers.”  
  
“Does not.”  
  
“Well, I hear it smells of fish where you come from.”  
  
It was meant as a provocation, but it only makes Asha laugh. “Imagine having a fish down there. Wriggling.”  
  
Aly gags exaggeratedly.  
  
“—Flopping all around—” Asha continues, and Aly smacks her with the pillow.  
  
“Don’t put those thoughts in my head, kraken,” Aly groans.  
  
“Your fault,” Asha says gleefully.  
  
She expects Aly to whap her with the pillow again, but instead she shoves at Asha lightly. Asha shoves back, and then for a time they grapple under the blankets, giddy with hushed laughter.  
  
The game ends when Aly collapses on her back and says, “It’s time to  _sleep_. No more fish.”  
  
Asha makes a fish face at her, sucking in her cheeks, and Aly groans, puts her hand flat on Asha’s face and pushes her gently away.  
  
“No more fish,” she says firmly. “Sleep.”  
  
Asha thinks about licking Aly’s hand—that always makes Theon recoil—but Aly removes it before Asha can decide.  
  
“The baby has a bedtime,” Asha teases instead. A yawn catches up to her midway through the last syllable.  
  
That doesn’t even win a grunt in response, just Aly turning on her side and tugging the blanket up. Asha sighs and does the same. Aly’s snoring again before Asha falls asleep.  
  
*  
  
Aly’s sendoff—the morrow’s morrow, as it happens—is quick and without fanfare.  
A servant comes to wake Aly, and Asha by proxy, before dawn. Together they load a cart with Aly’s things, picking a pony to pull it. By the time the sun begins its ascent over the horizon, its light bleeding onto the sea, the ship is ready to make sail.  
  
On the docks, Asha and Aly stare at each other, Aly shifting from foot to foot, Asha's mouth twisted downward. Then Aly moves forward. For half a second, Asha thinks that Aly’s going to hug her. Instead, Aly punches Asha's shoulder, hard enough to bruise, and jumps back too quickly for Asha to retaliate.  
  
Over her shoulder, Aly gives a last crooked, whiskered grin. Then she disappears onto the ship.  
Part of Asha wants to watch the ship until it vanishes; it’s the part that wants to think Aly’s on the ship watching Harlaw the same way.  
  
*  
  
Asha throws the axe at her closed door again. Its handle thwacks against the doorframe and clatters to the floor. Cursing, Asha retrieves it, scrambles back a few feet to try again. This time, it hits the door with the flat of the head before its downward tumble.  
  
It’s her brother Rodrik's axe, although one he’d outgrown. She stole into his old rooms earlier and scurried back before she could be noticed. She knew practicing wouldn’t be easy, but she’d pictured herself like Aly. Fierce, dangerous, strong, effortlessly in command of her body.  
  
The door has a scant few scores where the blade actually stuck, marks of triumph. The rest are dings in the wood there and again where she’d almost done it. The floor got the brunt of the beating; it’s where the axe lands most often.  
  
Practice has a rhythm to it: throw, miss, curse, grab the axe, try again. Each time, Asha tries to remember the strength of her throw, the position of her arm, the moment she releases the axe. It’s hard. There’s no looking glass to watch her form, no tutor to teach the proper way. She might have asked Aly, but Aly is gone. Besides, with all Asha’s trouble at it now, she’s glad she hadn’t. It would be awful for Aly to see her miss.  
  
It won't do to have a boy show her, either. If she fails, it's proof women shouldn't throw axes. If not, it only means she'll make a better wife.  _I'd rather marry the axe,_  she thinks, and scrambles for it once more.  
  
She tries to remember Aly throwing. Her memory insists on showing her only Aly’s intent, focused face, and nothing of her form. It’s a useless image but for the way it renews Asha’s determination. She hurls the axe again. It spins head-over-handle twice and, this time, sinks deep into the wood.  
  
Asha grins, savage, and retrieves the axe again. 


End file.
